


Cry Havoc

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Series: covert and clandestine [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Professions, Alternate Universe, Assassins, Caretaking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Libyan double job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry Havoc

**Author's Note:**

  * For [templemarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/gifts).



> For YAGKYAS 2010.

_It's almost too easy_ , Brad thinks, as he sights the rifle on their target, perfectly framed in the sliding glass doors of the hotel room. It's open a bare inch. Curtains flutter slightly on either side of him. The scope is powerful enough that Brad can see the ice move in his drink as the target lifts it to his mouth.

"Fire," Nate whispers from beside Brad.

A gentle squeeze at the natural resting point of his breath, and the man drops in an explosion of glass, taking the small-caliber bullet directly between his eyes. In less time than it takes the whiskey from the fallen glass to soak the carpet, Brad has disassembled the rifle and packed it up. The worn black backpack doesn't look like something that would be used to carry a weapon. Brad slings it over his shoulder and looks expectantly at Nate.

The barest of smiles crosses Nate's face. "Let's go," he commands.

They're more than a kilometer from the hotel before the sirens can even be heard. Nate's fleeting smile becomes a full-blown and satisfied grin, which is Brad's cue to dial one of his many cell phones. "This is Sparta One. Alcibiades is confirmed.”

“Copy, Alcibiades confirmed.” There’s a pause. Then Ray says, “Proceed to location Corinth.”

“Roger that.”

One set of sirens becomes another, and Brad knows that Rudy and Shawn are moving across the city just as he and Nate are, headed for one of the other safehouses that had been set up across the city.

It’s not until they’ve gained entrance to the directed structure - really, it’s a one-bedroom apartment without air conditioning in the Ben Ashour neighborhood - that Brad lifts a brow in Nate’s direction. “Really, sir, Sparta? Allies as our locations? Alcibiades as our target? Your major is showing.”

Nate laughs and starts to peel off his dusty street clothes, chosen specifically so that they could make it across the city from the assassination point to the safehouse without drawing suspicion. He says, “Would you rather be Athens?”

“No, because according to your range of codewords, I’d be dead.”

Nate smirks. Brad rolls his eyes, hip to Nate’s unspoken point that Brad is just as knowledgeable as he is. He strips off his own outer layer of pocket-covered vest and cargo pants, a look that Ray calls “war zone photojournalist chic” and that Brad calls “shut up, Person”. He stretches out on the bare mattress in the corner. “I made the kill, so you get first watch,” he tells Nate, and closes his eyes.

He hasn’t slept in forty-six hours. He doesn’t dream.

Exactly four hours later, Nate wakes him and they trade places. Brad eats an energy bar from his pack and leafs through an old magazine that he finds on the table. He keeps his handgun balanced on his thigh. In another four hours, he nudges Nate into wakefulness. “That time already?” Nate mumbles, his hands clutching the thin blanket that’s folded into a square beneath his head.

 _It’s not endearing,_ Brad tells himself, looking away from Nate’s sleep-drowsy countenance. “It is,” he answers. He tosses an energy bar in Nate’s direction and turns to put his clothes back on.

The streets are noisy and crowded, the heat from the sun beating down and then seeming to roll back up from the ground twice as hot. Brad can hear an Arabic radio station blaring a news report, catching bits and pieces of it as they walk, enough to know that their targets are definitely dead, and there’s already an international squabble over who was responsible. It’s been nine hours now; he’s not surprised.

They arrive at the second safehouse (“location Thebes”) within minutes of Shawn and Rudy. This one is well-stocked compared to the first, and Rudy brews a pot of coffee as Nate unfolds a map on the kitchen table. “Our extraction point is here,” he says, using a stub of pencil to mark the coordinates. “We’re Oscar Mike in...” he checks his watch, “ten hours. Make sure you eat something. Get some sleep if you can, it looks like the flight back is going to be rough.”

Brad looks at the tiny cup of coffee Rudy has just poured for him, then looks back at Nate.

“Fine, maybe just play football in the courtyard,” Nate says, an expression that suggests but isn’t actually a smile flickering across his face.

“Isn’t it risky to stay in-country this long?” Shawn asks around the cigarette he’s lighting.

“Sure,” Brad answers. “But so is trying to get out of the country immediately after you assassinate somebody.” He leans back in the chair and picks up his cup, taking a sip. It’s strong and bitter, and even if the immediate caffeine rush is his imagination, he doesn’t care. “Rudy, I don’t know what the fuck those sunglasses are that you’re wearing right now, but this coffee is the shit.”

Rudy grins and adjusts the designer sunglasses sitting on top of his head.

“Don’t even ask, Colbert, you can’t have him,” Shawn mutters.

“You don’t want to trade, Pappy?” Over his cup, Brad watches Nate re-fold the map and pretend to ignore their conversation. But he’s positive that Nate is paying sharp attention to every word.

“Hell, no.” Then to Nate, he says, “No offense, sir.”

“None taken.” The map gets tucked into Nate’s pack. Brad watches his hands still on the worn material before he picks it up. “If you gents are going to stay up a while, I’m going to get some shut-eye.”

“Roger that.”

Brad slides down further in the plastic chair and drinks more coffee. Shawn smokes another three cigarettes. Rudy does alternating sets of push-ups and crunches. They don’t talk. Brad figures they’ve worked together so long that everything worthwhile, they’d said years ago, and now they can wait out the post-op without needing to fill the silence.

“Brad, football?” Rudy asks, when he’s finished his doorway chin-ups.

Brad stares at him. “One: I think the LT was kidding. Two: You can’t play a decent game with three people. And three: Football with two people is just wrestling with some running involved, and I don’t need to watch you two get all ass-grabbing homoerotic.”

“I’m telling Ray you were on the rag this whole trip,” Rudy threatens, and he and Shawn go outside, laughing and shoving each other.

“You don’t even have a football,” Brad yells after them, not envying their good time. Then he gets up and goes to find Nate, leaving his vest hanging on the back of the plastic chair.

The rooms are cluttered with mis-matched furniture, almost like someone has been using this house for storage. He's not surprised to find Nate in one lined with bookshelves, although there are few books. Nate's stretched out on his back on the floor, rucksack tucked under his head, one of the dusty volumes in hand. He looks up from it as Brad steps into the room. His expression is unguarded, soft, something close to a smile. And expectant – the _what took you so long_ is clearly read.

It's an expression that Brad knows he won't see again for days, if not weeks. In the fading afternoon light, Nate looks like a teenager. Sometimes Brad forgets how young he is – how young they all are.

"Close the door, Brad," he says.

Brad steps backwards, and in doing so, shuts the door firmly. It has an old-fashioned lock beneath the doorknob. He snaps it into place.

Nate sets the book aside and says, "Come here," but this time it's barely a whisper.

"On the floor, sir?" Brad asks, stepping around a broken chair and a pile of newspapers that look to be in French, and then dropping to his knees next to Nate. "Although I'm sure we'll make do," he adds, as Nate's dry, calloused hand slides around the back of his neck.

Brad might question the team's orders on occasion, wonder out loud about the efficacy of their command, but he never hesitates when it comes to Nate directly. Especially when the corner of Nate’s mouth is twitching, and he’s telling Brad that he’s assured of it, and he’s yanking Brad down on top of him.

Brad feels sticky with layers of dust and perspiration. Even with the ancient fan Nate had dug up from somewhere creaking in the corner, he’s working on yet another layer of sweat. But Nate’s face is freshly scrubbed, the skin over his collarbone not streaked with grime as Brad closes his teeth - without force - over the jut of bone. “Where’d you find the shower?” he whispers.

Nate moves against him. He tugs on Brad’s earlobe. “There’s one in the bathroom, but it doesn’t work.”

 _Why would it_ , Brad thinks. _That would be too easy._

Nate grins as if he knows exactly what’s going through Brad’s mind. “There was, however, water.” He uses his elbow to point to the bowl of water a meter or so away. “I held it out, in case you wanted to wash up.”

Brad doesn’t lunge for it, exactly, because that would be unbecoming, but he does stretch out over Nate and carefully slide the bowl closer to them. He wrings out the rag floating in the room-temperature water. He scrubs it over his face and head, being sure to get behind his ears. Then he drops it back in the bowl. “Better,” he sighs, and feels much cooler with damp skin.

Nate lifts the dripping cloth and squeezes it out, his eyes never leaving Brad’s face. Silently, he washes Brad’s arms, one at a time, and then his hands. Brad stares down at him as Nate works the rough cloth around each of his fingers, scraping over callouses and ragged cuticles. Brad flashes to the time that Nate had taken each of Brad’s fingers into his mouth, sucking each one, and his erection presses into Nate’s belly.

“Sir,” he says, but it comes out mostly a sigh. He clears his throat. “Nate.”

Nate throws the rag aside and yanks him down for a hard kiss, all teeth and tongue and _demand_. Brad kisses back with just as much force, wanting as much of this as Nate will give.

Why they only do this on dusty floors in dirty, falling-down safehouses, Brad doesn’t know. He’s never seen the inside of Nate’s house. He’s never seen the _outside_ of Nate’s house. And Nate has never seen his. Brad has never asked him to. He doesn’t know if he should.

Nate’s hand undoes his pants and then pushes in, wrapping around Brad’s dick and starting to stroke. Brad balances himself on one arm above Nate’s shoulder and returns the favor, stripping his cock in the same rhythm. Nate’s eyes are dark, barely open, his breath coming in gasps, and Brad thrusts into his grip when his speed falters.

Nate arches up and sinks his teeth into Brad’s neck as he comes, rubbing his thumb over the tip of Brad’s cock as he does, and it’s enough. Brad collapses downward, but not all the way onto Nate, catching himself on his shaky arm. He removes his hand from Nate’s shorts.

Nate presses the wet rag into his palm, and Brad cleans them both off, quickly and without lingering. Then he lays on his back on the floor next to Nate, French newspapers underneath his head, and closes his eyes. He wonders what Nate’s house looks like. He wonders what sorts of things Nate does on the weekend. He wonders why this is their job - anonymous kills in desert countries, sand in their pockets, codewords from the Peloponnesian War, and safehouses named after Greek cities that had lost power centuries ago.

But most of all, he listens to Nate breathe. He’s not sure how long they stay like that.

Some time later, he hears the door open downstairs, Rudy and Pappy yelling something about their game. He want to shut it out, but he can’t. From the way Nate’s breath changes, Brad knows he can’t shut it out, either.

Nate inhales sharply. “Time to move,” he says, and so Brad does.


End file.
